lest you be consumed
by Twilight Hours
Summary: Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed. Sam's hurting. Season 5.
1. natural men are held in the hand of god

Season 5. Takes place between_ Abandon All Hope _and _Sam, Interrupted. _Not mine~_  
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* * *

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"_Oh, sinner!_" Dean shouts behind you. That's the beginning, you think, but looking back you're not so sure. The beginning is usually something you're able to distinguish; the end is not so clear.

Dean punches you as soon as you whirl around, before you're even able to figure out what exactly is going on. Pain blossoms like lavender flowers. You're sent stumbling a few steps to the side, farther away from your brother, since you were in front of him to begin with. You're suddenly, slightly irrationally worried, because he's not wearing gloves.

It probably started a few of Dean's sentences earlier. The cold tends to blend things together like a blizzard—

You're thinking desperately for a plan of action even as you're recovering. It's not like either of you are unprepared, of course, so you grab the opening to your duffel. Pretty hard to get it unfastened when you're wearing two pairs of gloves. God, what are you _doing_? There's nothing in your duffel you can use that won't hurt Dean. Dean, who's got the salt and holy water. Dean, who's smirking at you, and he's got this _wrong _look on his face...

"You've an evil aura about you," Dean had said a minute earlier, and you didn't think anything of it because you didn't actually hear what he said, the wind was blowing too hard, but he kept going, "it's practically festering. You must have committed some terrible acts, and I've seen a lot of sinners in these woods. Edwards' sermon is perfect for you."

"What?" You had asked, yelled back to him. "I can't hear you, Dean. The wind is too loud."

Cold is a pathetic excuse for an understatement. It's... God, you don't even know what state you're in. Somewhere close to Canada. Montana, you remember— a few miles north of Wurtz Airport. It's mid-January, and the whole upper part of the state is undergoing some freak storm that's been stated multiple times on the news as apocalyptic. And they're not far off. Not far at all.

You and Dean end up on a case here, somehow. Hilariously, you both had considered it a break, from chasing after the Devil and his Horsemen. Funny how freezing snowstorms is the definition of a break. (Though it's not snowing now, but it will.) You want to cry, it's so damn cold.

The victims were in pairs, though not always close to each other. Once it was two teenagers. Then two siblings, college students. Two park rangers were even found a day after they went out to survey the area. All frozen to death, some beaten and bloody as well. You hadn't been sure what it was— maybe some old-fashioned demon, maybe a nymph. You never found out.

The truth is, you and Dean should never have walked into the forest.

"Dean?" You gasp out, momentarily abandoning the duffel and rubbing your cheek. Your breath comes out in little, restless clouds of alabaster. Briefly, you wonder if your soul looks like that—

You're dressed efficiently. You and Dean. A set of long-underwear, a spandex shirt and pants, three pairs of socks, some calf-high rubber boots, jeans, two long-sleeved shirts and two jackets. Gloves and beanies. It might not be the best, but you went with what you had. It makes you clumsy and awkward and uncoordinated but you're warm. (Sort of. The chill always manages to crawl its way through every layer.) You can handle it. You've got sharp reflexes, anyway.

Not where Dean is concerned. There's always a little hesitation when it comes to your brother— no matter the circumstance. You can't afford screw-ups, but here you are, with another fist in your face and a hard boot in your ribs.

"The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, _abhors_ you, and is dreadfully provoked," Dean's yelling and yelling, and suddenly his bare hands are ripping off your beanie and pulling your hair and clutching your jaw and you're looking dazedly into some cold being that is _not your brother_. "You useless pain in the ass," he hisses, and you think, _that isn't Jonathan Edwards. _

You also think that his words shouldn't hurt you so much, but they _do._ They cause an ache stronger than a punch to the face or the intrusive cold. You know they're not true (do you?) but you can't help but flinch. It's not Dean. It can't be Dean.

There's a spot on his chest where normally you'd see a dim gold face hanging from a thin black cord. Castiel may have it now, but you think under any other circumstance, he had never willingly taken it off— he never would. You've been secretly craving for the angel to come back and hold out his hand, to watch Dean take it and slip it around his neck.

You know Dean's waiting for that day too, and that's what erases any uncertainty in your mind. You start to fight back.

Your legs bend in, and then you're kicking against Dean, struggling to stand as he's forced away from you. Your duffel abandoned, your legs finally find some stability again and you're up. Whatever's got Dean is pretty resilient, though, because he's already charging at you again with some more religious crap spewing out of his mouth like fire.

"Consider the fearful danger you are in," he screams, and you truly consider it. And the trouble _Dean _is in— he can't stay out much longer or he'll get frostbite in his hands. You don't want that to happen on your watch. You don't know what you'll do if it does.

You put up your arms to block, trying to shield the only part of you left uncovered. He still manages to get a few more hits in, leaving you more than dazed, so you lash out yourself. You're clumsy and slow, compared to Dean, and his head barely moves when your gloved fists collide with his cheek. When you get another chance—

"Were it not for the sovereign pleasure of God, the earth would not bear you one moment; for you are a _burden_ to it—"

—you opt instead for kicking, and you bring a boot up to send him flying back. His head hits the trunk of a tree and he's down momentarily— for a split second you jerk, wanting to run to him, but you cast the notion aside. However, what you see next causes another minute's pause.

In contrast to the vermilion running down your battered face, Dean has ebony leaking out his nose like tar. _Possessed, Dean's possessed_. By a pretty powerful ghost from the looks of it, which worries you. The simple punches are most likely child's play, and it can do much worse. You've no idea where your or Dean's duffels are, long lost in snow. You need—you need help.

"—the creation _groans_ with you; the creature is made subject to the bondage of your corruption, not willingly; the sun does not willingly shine upon you to give you light to serve sin and _Satan_—"

Dean's voice is rising higher as he rises, making it hard to concentrate. You take a quick glance at your surroundings, noting the dreadful sameness of everything, how far you've gone off the trail, how everything is covered in snow like sheets, begging you to lay down and just _sleep. _

Your face and ears are burning from the cold, damp like your hair is from the snow.

You had just gone in to do a little scouting of the woods, a few miles away from where the last victims were found. You hadn't even gone far in, had just decided to stay close to the edge of the woods and familiarize yourself with the area as well as look for any hints as to what might be preying on civilians. It had been almost three o' clock when you and Dean set out. Both of you didn't want to stay for too long, but it's already dark now.

You stave off Dean's attacks when he comes at you again, your mind racing through possible options and situations. When his fist catches your jaw again, you're hit back against a tree, and you let him grab your hair again—

"You've always been a fucking _burden_, you know that?"

—and slam your skull into the bark. You feel your skin split, but you use the move to your advantage and sweep your leg out, knocking him off balance again. And then you run.

You can't lead Dean out of the forest because you don't know where you are. No one will be able to find you in time, not even Bobby, because the storm would set them back at least an extra hour.

You stumble, trip, feel nauseous, but keep running. You can't hear Dean.

Staying here is not an option. Even with all the layers you have on, you won't be able to last the night. You don't want Dean running around possessed by some damn minister obsessed with old-fashioned Puritan sermons— there were always two victims, you remind yourself.

You stop, leaning against a thick and icy tree trunk. Besides your own noise, the forest is quiet. The snow smothers every living thing, every sound, and puts the world on mute; silent violence. Murder comes without a price here.

But, no. You do hear something: a faint roar. Like a river. However, it sounds far, far away.

Castiel. You could get him to come— help you, take Dean. Your phone, you need your phone.

A lone curse finds its way out of your mouth. Your phone is in your pocket underneath both your jackets.

Your eyes scrunch shut, then open before the lashes freeze together. You place a hand between your thighs and start to pull off your gloves.

"There is hell's wide gaping mouth open; and you have nothing to stand upon..." Dean bellows somewhere behind you and further to the left. His voice is loud, but low, like a warning. He draws out the last word for what seems like minutes. He's getting closer, you know.

You pull off the gloves on your left hand with your bare fingers, and then you're on the move again, zipping down the first jacket as you jog. Your hands tremble frantically, and you realize it's not from the cold.

You're scared. You can feel it coursing through your veins.

You shrug out of the jacket hurriedly and throw it to your right, seeing if you can steer Dean off your trail a little. He won't be easily deceived, though, unless you cover the heavy foot prints you leave in the snow. It's not too high, but already your jeans are soaked through from the knees down. _The river_, you think. _It's closer._

"_You can't run forever!_" His brother shrieks. It sounds almost right next to you, and it makes your heart leap. Your fingers are numbing from the cold; you can't imagine how worse off Dean's are. You struggle with the buttons on your second jacket like a drunk man.

"You selfish son of a bitch," you hear from behind you, and you wonder if Dean's possessed by _two _ghosts or just some crazy-ass schizo, and you don't want to believe there's another option, "I'm through with cleaning up your messes."

You don't have time to look— there's a heavy click, then a blast.

Pain peppers your back and thighs, giving you more momentum as you sprint ahead. Dean must have gone back to his duffel to grab the shotgun. You try to ignore the dull ache forming, lucky you still have more than a few layers on your torso.

The gun fires again, and you dodge around a tree, watching the spray of rock salt hammer trees in front of and beside you. Another blast, and your shoulders and neck sting furiously.

You keep running.

After a few more misses and hits, it goes silent again, except for a loud curse. Must have ran out of ammo. You finally manage to tear off your jacket, and, abandoning any pretense of concealment you might have had, you stop and get out your phone.

You can't call Castiel. You can't— you're too damn afraid. Of Dean. You have to be quiet.

You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with icy air and trying hard to remember what the coordinates were on the map you had studied before leaving the Impala. You steady your hands and open your phone. Finding the angel's number in your contacts, you send a text message.

_48.94  
-114.41  
Stuff dean w/salt_

Right as you're pressing the send button, you hear that deep, chilly voice of the _thing _using your brother's vocal chords.

"That world of misery, that lake of burning brimstone, is extended abroad under you."

There's a smaller click this time, and you spin around, seeing black ooze from Dean's nose and over his lips, as well as down his neck from his ears. He's holding his pistol with silver rounds. He's pointing it right at you.

You see him smirk and pull the trigger, you hear the shot, and then there's nothing at all.


	2. the devil is waiting for them

Season 5. Takes place between_ Abandon All Hope _and _Sam, Interrupted. _Not mine~

* * *

As you wake with a start you can hear the echo of the gunshot, and then you can hear a sharp and constant crushing sound, like snow being trampled on. You hear the roar of the river, very close now.

You must have gone into shock earlier, but you're awake now, and pain throbs through you like ocean waves as tall as skyscrapers.

Your face is sore and swollen. The entire back side of your body is pulsing with hurt. Your right arm is murmuring in protest, likely to start screaming soon, from the bullet wound placed a little lower than your shoulder. Dean's got a hold of your wrists with what feels like claws made of icicles, and he's dragging you through the thick blanket that covers the woods.

Your hands, you realize, are completely numb. You try to wiggle your fingers but you don't know if they're actually moving.

More than anything, you're _cold. _Flurries are sticking to unexposed skin, and the back of your jeans and shirts are soaked through completely, causing goosebumps to map the entire canvas of your body. A massive shiver wracks your frame, and in response, Dean starts to speak again.

"Your wickedness makes you as it were heavy as lead," he speaks to you matter-of-factly. You barely register the words. Your legs are stiff, your entire self frozen and unresponsive. You can't bring yourself to figure out how long you were out— you're tired. You're so tired.

"D'n," you manage out, but you can't get your mouth to move the way you want and your jaw shivers so suddenly that you bite your tongue.

You can't take a deep enough breath to feel comfortable. You feel like you should be scared— of something. Wasn't your heart pounding a little while ago? It's so slow now. You feel the sluggish beat in your chest like a finger gently tapping on you from the inside. Your back aches. Your arm hurts, as if you got shot. You don't remember.

"And to tend downwards with great weight and pressure towards hell," Dean continues preaching, but he's stopped dragging you now, and the roaring is as loud as it'll ever be; you hang your head back again, and see the river, a huge shadow lurking, a monstrous black abyss poking out from gaps in the ice.

You and Dean are right next to one of those gaps. You stare at it.

"D'n."

He ignores you, keeps going with his sermon while he walks around you and starts to push your torso. Drops of obsidian land on the snow next to you, and a few get on your shirt. Then your face is hitting powder and grinding against your forehead.

"And if God should let you go," he's saying, "you would immediately sink and swiftly descend."

Another roll sparks pain in your arm, sparks you into action, and you try to push himself up, but it hurts, it's too late—

"And plunge."

He grunts, pushing you hard and forcing the air our of your lungs, forcing your face right next to the menacing rapids, which hiss and spray at your face—

"Into the bottomless gulf."

And suddenly, you're being swallowed by that black abyss, Dean's last words cut off with it's roar.

Your nerves come alive briefly as you're swept under. The freeze that bursts through every fiber of your being is absolute, _unbearable_, and it _devours_ you. You jerk and spasm, struggling against the current, fighting for everything. For your brother, for the world, for yourself.

Your fingers are as much a part of you as your clothes now, but you use them anyway to scrape and push and claw the ice above you. Above you is light, below you is— you're not sure. You don't want to know. Yet, you're being pulled down by the current. (By more than the current.) It's unforgiving, merciless, and you feel sick from the way your numb fingers fly against the frozen glass, and how _fucking freezing you are. _God, you're becoming the cold, you want to scream, but you can't hold your breath much longer and your lungs are burning and you cherish it because it's the only warmth you'll ever have ever again.

You don't want to let go.

Dean's going to be pissed— no, Dean's going to freeze to death. He probably will. Because of you, a goddamn screw-up of a brother. He threw you into a fucking river and you can't even get yourself out.

You don't want to let go.

But you can feel your body slowly shutting down from lack of heat and lack of oxygen, and just for a moment, _only just one moment_, you let go. For a moment, you become the river, the looming black monster trying to hide under a transparent layer of apathy and strength. (Poking out from gaps in the ice. Everyone always saw those gaps.)

But you're really just (_a fucking _burden,_ you know that_)?

—_and if God should let you go, you would immediately sink and swiftly descend and plunge into the bottomless gulf._

You let go.

_Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed._

You let go.

* * *

Something's pulling you out of the surging waters. It grabs your hair and yanks. Then it gets a hold of your shirt, and it's dragging your dead weight out of the river. It lays you on the bank, a few feet away from the cracked ice.

You don't move. You don't breathe. The river growls at its loss, it laps at its boundaries and grows louder in frustration at your lack of response. You don't—

You cough, ice water erupting from your mouth. You roll to your side and it comes spewing out of your throat like an avalanche and your throat hurts, your chest hurts your lungs hurt everything hurts like a dull throbbing on the inside, somehow, just beneath the skin.

The cold starts to seep in again, but only a little. You aren't shivering.

You try to open your eyes, but you can't. They're— stuck. You leave them closed. You're tired, so tired, and it's hard to think, but there's something you need to do, and it's important. Your instinct kicks in and you try to figure out just how bad off you are.

Your hands and feet are useless, you're not even sure if they're still there. You can move your legs a little, but they're stiff and you're easily tired from the motion. Your left arm is fairly okay, the right one harder to control, for some reason you're not sure of. Torso, clammy and uncomfortable. Wet. Face, same. You nuzzle the snow briefly and note you've lost feeling in your nose and ears. Your eyes— still won't open.

There's not much you can do. (What can you do?) You don't know where your duffel is, you wouldn't be able to open it regardless. You don't know where _you _are. The worst part, you don't know where _Dean _is, and that _terrifies _you. You barely remember what happened. Christ, if Dean fell in too—

Dean had been the one to push you in, hadn't he? Had you been— had you fought?

(_You selfish son of a bitch I'm through with cleaning up your messes_)

No, no, Dean had been possessed. By a— a ghost. And you— you had sent a message to Castiel. He had to have gotten it. He had to have saved Dean.

Using your elbows, you try to get up, to go somewhere, and you start to crawl away from the roaring river. But you're too weak; you collapse back down with your face pressed against the snow. Your breath, no longer coming out in white puffs, is light and shallow. You don't want to try again. You decide to curl up instead, your dead hands moved to your scalp and your arms touching your face. You bend your knees as much as possible, which probably isn't much at all, and then you let the cold consume you once more. You lie there, like a lost child who's never going to be found. The immensity of the forest dwarfs you, and soon starts to hide your body with a new layer of snow. You feel yourself begin to shut down again, and you're okay. Castiel had to have saved Dean. You're okay.

"Sam."

The voice is barely heard. It's low, and rough, and familiar, and it contains relief and regret and happiness. But it's not Dean.

There's some crunching noises, getting louder and louder 'til they're right at your face, and the only thing between it and the noise are your arms covered with frozen shirt sleeves. Sounds maybe like boots.

It's not Dean.

There's a small pressure on your forehead, and then you're gone.

* * *

You wake up— again— cold and unable to move. You're still wet, too. Except now something's moving you, touching you and jostling you. You're being stripped, slowly and carefully, each layer being peeled off like a bandaid. Wanting to fight, you try to struggle, but your limbs won't cooperate. A low growl comes from the bottom of your throat.

"Jesus, Cas, can't you go any faster?"

"I already told you, I'm only able to heal a little bit at a time. My power is not sufficient enough to completely repair him."

And suddenly you're being dressed again, something's being wrapped around your arms and legs. You're not sure about your hands or feet.

You're starting to shake, from the cold and another thing— those voices— That's Castiel. That's Dean.

Dean is safe. (_Oh, God, Dean is safe._)

You try to open your eyes again, and you _can. _You see, the first thing you see, is the motel room, bright oranges and reds and Castiel's pants. Your mouth opens and you try to speak.

"D-d'h."

You cough. And instantly, Dean's face is right in front of yours, his hands on your cheeks and then your forehead and then your cheeks again, and you flinch, and you notice that his hands, they're bandaged, and guilt floods through you. But you're so glad Dean is okay, and _here._

"Sammy, Sammy, God, are you okay, man? I'm so glad you— I thought— We fixed up your arm. We were gonna start working on your back _God_ Sammy I'm so fucking glad you're okay, I—"

He stops there, but his hands don't stop moving around your face. You feel your heart rate begin to speed up again and your trembling gets more intense, like you're practically convulsing. There's a shift behind Dean and you break eye contact for a second.

"You'll need some blankets," Castiel says with a bundle already in his arms, "you're cold. We can take care of the wounds from the shotgun later."

Dean quiets, looks away, but he helps the angel cocoon you in the comforters.

You try to work your mouth again, and find that it'll acquiesce for the most part.

"C-cas," the words come out choppy and erratic and fatigued, "th-tha-anks-s f-f'r p-pull'n-ng m-me out-t-t f'th-the r-r-riv-v'r."

The man leans down next to Dean, staring at you with deer-wide eyes. "Sam, I did not pull you out of the river."

He glances down then, looking suddenly uncomfortable. He clears his throat, then continues softly, "Sam. I'm, uh. I'm sorry I couldn't find you— sooner."

You start abruptly, then settle again. That means— what Castiel said, were you—?

You look at them, both full of guilt and regret and pain, like you. You wish you could apologize for your failures, your mistakes, everything you've ever done to them. For a split second in this motel room, you _envy_ Dean and Castiel. Because they're able to be absolved for what they do or don't do. They're able to ask for forgiveness and get something besides _too little, too late _back.

"S-s'alr-r-right-t." And you mean it, too. They hadn't done anything wrong. They don't deserve the guilt.

"Sam..." Dean starts, but you shake your head and level him with a stare.

"D-don't." And that's about it. You're too tired to say any more, so you tilt your head a little away from them and try to keep your eyes open. Your jaw hammers rapidly and you're freezing.

They both seem to sigh at the same time. After a stretched silence, Dean says gently, "We'll get someone else to finish the hunt," and his hands are on your face again, combing your hair back.

Castiel's hand is unexpectedly on your face too, and warmth spreads through your frame with the touch. Your nose and ears and fingers and toes twinge. What color are they, you wonder.

Someone else will finish the hunt. You'll probably stay in this motel room for a while, maybe go to the hospital eventually to deal with anything Castiel is unable to fix. You'll always remain a little damaged from this, a little cold. This hunt will doubtless never be brought up again.

The two begin to move around you again, pacing, circling you like mourners. You think about asking Castiel for Dean's amulet, but you're too tired, so you go to sleep.


End file.
